


If you ask me to change (I don't know if I can)

by Sensusscelestus



Series: I'll always be (who I am) [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Emotional Hurt, Emotional Infidelity, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23671378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sensusscelestus/pseuds/Sensusscelestus
Summary: Hi, thought Jack, staring at his reflection.My name is Jack. I’m an addict.It’s been 1,829 days since my last pill.
Relationships: Eric "Bitty" Bittle/Jack Zimmermann, Kent "Parse" Parson/Jack Zimmermann
Series: I'll always be (who I am) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1704475
Comments: 10
Kudos: 86





	If you ask me to change (I don't know if I can)

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy!

_Hi,_ thought Jack, staring at his reflection. _My name is Jack. I’m an addict. It’s been 1,829 days since my last pill._

The fluorescent lighting of the hotel bathroom made his face seem more drawn, more sallow, more tired. The bags under his eyes weren’t new, neither was the accusation in them, but somehow, they still surprised him.

He curled his fingers around the counter’s edge, dropping his head to avoid his own gaze.

He hadn’t expected the Big Game to change him that much. 

He hadn’t thought it would fix everything.

He hadn’t though it would fix _him_.

But he had hoped.

“Zimmboni! We are going - got to hurry, or we miss bus!” Tater punctuated his calls with raps at the door. Jack breathed deeply.

_Once, twice._

He grabbed his shaving kit and swung open the door, moving briskly into the room. He stuffed it into his waiting duffel bag before hoisting it over his shoulder.

“Right behind you, Tater.” 

He strode out of the room without a backwards glance. He could have sworn he felt his reflection’s stare following him _._ His neck felt hot. His mouth was dry. The rattling pill bottle in his kit made the whole bag weigh heavily on his shoulders.

_Hi, Jack._

\--

_“—_ and Troy moves it quickly out of the neutral zone, he’s got Kablukov and Richardson with him. They’re getting into position for their - wow quick pass interception by Mashkov, the Falcons have it back! He’s taking his time with it, giving his team time to change. We always look forward to Mashkov’s aggressive plays, don’t we Dan?”

“We sure do, Mike, seems like there’s always something fun to watch when he’s on the ice.”

“Well, we’re hockey fans, so you could say we’re a bit biased - ok Mashkov to St. Martin, passes back to Mashkov before getting it to Zimmerman - NO Parson’s got it back! He’s putting on speed headed straight to the other end! No one is close to him. Zimmerman makes a diving slash but Parson’s already gone it’s him and the goalie can Snow stop - GOAL!” 

The arena exploded. Jack grit his teeth, pushing himself back on to his skates. Absently brushing the ice off his front, he glanced at the Jumbotron. 

**Aces 3 - Falconers 2**

He could just make out his teammates’ grumbles over the roar of the home-crowd. Kent’s #90 was buried under a pile of black jerseys to his left. He made a point not to look that way. His heartbeat thundered louder than the fans.

1:02 left.

He skated to the face-off circle. Poots was already in position, his young face fixed in a scowl as he waited for the Aces player to join him.

Jack rapped his stick quickly, once, twice. Poot’s eyes flicked his way for a split moment. The Ace skated up, leaned over, stick ready.

The puck dropped, and Poots snaked it to Jack. 

_Gotcha._

He didn’t wait for a perfect attack formation – time wasn’t on their side. He skirted around the face-off circle. He saw Poots deke the other way, making his way down the ice. The ice between them was filled with black jerseys. A stick swept his way – he swerved, flipping the puck to his other side. Passed the center line. Still too many jerseys. An Ace moved for him, shoulder dropped for a check. Jack braced himself to push-through. But then the Ace dropped, Thirdy down on top of him, and Jack _moved._

He shot to the corner. The Ace forwards converged on the opposite corner, planning to meet him and the puck at a battle at the boards. Jack was faster.

38 seconds.

Just before he crossed the goal-line, he lifted his stick slightly, but kept moving. He skated into the waiting Aces melee, grunting as he met hard shoulders and harder boards.

Thirdy, following behind him, caught the puck he had left behind and shot it straight to Poots. The rookie raised his stick, readying for a slap-shot and slams it forward straight into – Kent.

_No._

Kent, standing in front of his own goalie, took the puck to his hip. He dropped to a knee with a noise that Jack couldn’t hear but could easily imagine.

The crowd screamed for their Captain.

Jack surged away from the corner, making desperate strides to the crease. Poots was lunging forward too, scrambling for the puck that was sliding away from Kent’s skates.

Jack dove. He could just make out Kent’s widening eyes before they crashed into each other, arms and sticks flying. He felt his elbow make contact with something that wasn’t ice. He heard a corresponding grunt. He kept moving, reaching out for a single sweep of the puck and –

A buzzer. A whistle. A cheer.

The game was over.

He felt hands tearing into the back of his jersey, pulling him up and away from the pile of players. He got up without resistance, using the momentum to skate away without a backwards glance. He didn’t need to see the celebratory group hug on the captain. He didn’t need to see Kent’s victorious smirk.

(He had seen it enough. There was a time when it had always been directed at him. For him.)

He skated off the ice, without a backwards glance. His neck was burning again. He could feel his reflection staring after him again.

He ducked into the tunnel.

He didn’t even smash his stick against the wall.

He just kept moving. Moving until he was safe in the locker room, the first one to arrive.

He smashed his stick then.

_Hi, Jack._

\--

The mood at the bar was quiet. It usually was, after a loss. But it seems like the shattered remains of Jack’s stick lining the locker room floor had affected the team even more. Coach had patted his shoulder, with a “Good effort, Jack.”

_Not good enough._

Guy had sat heavily beside him in the room, tiredly telling his team, “We still have two games left against the Aces before the end - season’s not over yet.”

_But will I be better?_

But no one had cheered up. Jack knew that his dark expression and splintered stick hadn’t helped.

And now they sat, scattered across the bar, using the low-lighting to nurse their beers and their pride and their faults.

Jack was nursing water. He sat with Thirdy and Marty, his eyes across the room on a group of celebrating college students. They wore an assortment of party hats, laughing loudly with a table full of shot glasses. One of the girls was wearing a feather boa and a tiara. He could also see Poots, waiting for his drink at the bar, watching her. He hadn’t said a word to Jack all evening.

He took a sip, then emptied his glass.

“Zimmboni!”

A warm mass shoved him deeper into the booth and Thirdy’s side. The veteran protested as Marty grinned into his glass, Tater situating himself half on the booth-seat and half on Jack’s right leg.

“Zimmboni – you glare so much that barman is getting scared.” Tater reached a giant hand up to Jack’s face, pushing at his eyebrows.

“What – Tater- stop!”

Marty and Thirdy kept their mouths behind their drinks.

“No, need to fix them. Fix eyebrows, fix the world, _da_?”

Jack sighed and let it happen. Years of living with Shitty had taught him that the path of non-resistance was easier.

Satisfied, Tater dropped his hand, laying it across Jack’s shoulders instead. He turned his head to follow Jack’s gaze, and saw Poots at the bar. His face grew more serious.

“Poots is thinking you are mad at him. For missing shot.” Jack’s eyes flew to meet Tater’s. Marty and Thirdy went conspicuously quiet.

Jack chewed his words for a moment.

“I’m not mad at him. He took a shot, and it was blocked. Wasn’t his fault.”

Tater raised his eyebrow. Marty took a sip of his beer.

Jack sighed.

“I’ll talk to him.”

\--

It took him a minute to extricate himself from the booth and Tater’s sprawling legs. He walked over the bar, laying his glass on the counter and catching’s the bartender’s eyes. Within a second, another water glass was in front of him. He blinked, bemused.

_Maybe I was glaring too much._

Poots was still watching the college party, not looking at Jack even though he stood beside him.

“Poots.”

The rookie stiffened. He turned slightly, leaning his back against the bar, but not meeting Jack’s eyes.

“That – that was a good shot you made.”

Poots finally looked up. Jack was struck by how young he looked – the college students in the corner looked older.

_Crisse. He’s younger than Chowder._

The thought gave him more confidence. He slipped an arm around his shoulders.

“We’ll get them next time, eh? That was a hell of a face-off. You and I make a great team.” Poots’ face brightened a bit more, even as he ducked his head.

“Thanks, Jack.” He hesitated. “Sorry I missed it. I know you did a great set-up.”

“Not your fault.” Jack said firmly. _It was mine._ “We’ll get them next time.” His words got receive an actual smile, even as Lowry and Badger – the other rookies – joined them, grabbing Poots’ arms and drawing him towards the back pool tables. Poots let himself be chivied along, but he smiled at Jack as he left.

“Good job.”

Jack turned. Guy stood a bit farther down the bar. He picked up his water and walked his way.

“I didn’t mean – ” He stooped, the words stuck. “I wasn’t blaming everyone else.”

Guy laughed.

“You think I don’t see that, Jack? So you got into a post-game funk. Happens to everyone. I’m glad you recognized it, though, and pulled yourself out. Better for you, and better for the team.” He gestured around the bar, and Jack could see more life in all his teammates. He sighed again while Guy chuckled.

“They’re not always so sensitive to moods. But we all knew this was a game you wanted, given your history with Parson.”

Jack whipped his head around, but Guy’s eyes were calm. Jack fought against the anger rising in chest, the indignant voice and the furious snarl. He had long practice in keeping those down. When he spoke, his voice was as level as usual.

“Old rivals. But, uh, we’ll get them next time.”

The repeated phrase sounded fake to his ears. But Guy smiled and saluted him with his glass as he walked off, leaving Jack alone at the bar. He stared down at this water, letting the conversation of the bar wash over him. A sudden rise in the noise had him looking up. The college students had all rushed to the window, peering through and scrambling out of their tables. The boa girl fixed her tiara. Jack felt a sudden drop in his stomach, even as Kent Parson walked through the door.

He looked good. His button-up was undone at the collar, his snap-back on backwards, with a few wayward strands of hair curling past the edges. Jack had never known a man as short as Kent who slouched as much as him. Most men tried to make themselves appear taller. Kent slouched in a disdainful manner that belayed confidence and nonchalance. He was effortlessly casual. The benevolent sovereign of every room he entered. Subjects fell at his feet.

Jack had once stood beside him.

The Aces surrounded him now. All of them were caught mid-laugh as they pushed into the bar. They moved into the room as if they owned it, calling out greetings to the bartender and shrugging off their jackets. 

They quieted upon catching sight of the Falconers. Jack realized belatedly that his whole team had gone quiet, spread out over the room. 

Kent moved first. He smirked.

“Evening, boys. Here to celebrate?” 

The cacophony that met his words was deafening. The Aces laughed behind him; Poots and Lowry and BLANK all moving forward to chirp the Aces’ rookies; Tater’s loud protests were mainly Russian, while Thirdy and Marty muttered in the corner.

The college party watched with rapt attention.

Kent watched Jack.

Jack felt frozen under his gaze, even with the distance between them. Kent had always possessed the ability to shock him into movement or stun him into stillness. He used to be able to anticipate which event it would be. 

He felt the anger rising again.

Still he couldn’t move. 

Kent took a step forward, but found himself faced with Tater. Jack looked on for a moment, at Kent’s grin against Tater’s petulance. Then he fled.

\--

He moved to the back of the bar, and found a door to the alley. Leaning against the wall, he breathed deeply from the cold, desert air, ignoring the harsher smells of the alley.

He checked his phone. 38 notifications from the Samwell group chat. He scrolled through it absently.

Ransom (10:52pm)

_i s2g we didn’t know the cake was for you._

Dex (10:52pm) _:_

_It was my prize! For writing the test! That you knew about! IT LITERALLY HAD MY NAME WRITTEN ON IT BECAUSE BITTY IS A SAINT._

Lardo (10:53pm):

_bro_

Shitty (10:55pm):

_does the defense rest?_

Ransom (10:55pm):

_wtf no the DEFENSE doesn’t REST, SHITTY. Half the defense is BLIND without his glasses! He couldn’t read a flashing neon sign, let alone the writing on a cake!”_

Bittle (10:56pm):

_y’all.”_

Holster (10:57pm):

_yeah dude if you leave a cake lying around in a frat Haus it’s your own fault_

Shitty (10:57pm):

_OBJECTION._

Shitty (10:57pm):

_VICTIM BLAMING_

Bittle (10:58pm):

_y’aLL_

Chowder (10:58pm):

Wait Shitty, I thought you were the judge?

Shitty (10:58pm):

_DO I NEED TO HAVE A VICTIM SHAMIMG TALK WITH YOU. I WILL FUCKING PULL OUT THE FUCKING POWERPOINT SO HELP ME GOD._

Ransom (10:59pm):

_heh pull out_

Lardo (11:00pm):

_nice_

Dex (11:01pm):

_DICK JOKES ARE NOT THE POINT_

Ransom (11:02pm):

_dude we’re sorry we are your cake but it’s not like we can give it back??? Do you want us to mama bird you and vomit it into your mouth cuz like we can try??_

Lardo (11:03pm):

_definitely do that. Nursey, you’ll film._

Bittle (11:03pm):

_Y’ALL_

Bittle (11:03pm):

_I MADE TWO CAKES._

Bittle (11:03pm):

_I’VE LIVED IN THE HAUS FOR YEARS._

Bitty (11:04pm)

_I’VE SEEN WHAT HAPPENS TO BAKED GOODS LEFT ALONE._

Bittle (11:04pm):

 _Dex, your cake is in the fridge under the bowl that says “dank cheese”_ _❤_

Lardo (11:05pm):

_bro. ruin my fun._

Shitty (11:06pm)

_I too am slightly fucking put out._

Ransom (11:06pm)

_heh put out_

Bittle (11:08pm):

_🙄_

Jack (11:12pm):

_Ha nice._

Shitty (11:12pm):

_JACK. YOU BEAUTIFUL FUCKER. SORRY ABOUT THE GAME._

Holster (11:13pm) _:_

_yo Jack caught the game, nice effort at the end!_

Chowder (11:14pm):

_Sorry, Jack! The Sharks play the Aces next so we’ll try to avenge you_

As he read through the messages, another private one popped up.

Bittle (11:15pm):

_You alright, honey?_

He thought about responding.

“A guy could get offended, with you running away like that.” 

He jerked his focus away from his phone. Kent stood silhouetted in the doorway, leaning against the frame. 

Jack felt flustered. He didn’t know how long Kent has been there. Being flustered never sat well with him.

“A guy could feel cornered, with you following him around,” he snapped.

His barb glossed over Kent, who only moved out of the light and towards Jack. He stopped a few feet away.

He was smirking, but it was the smirk that seemed like second nature to Kent, the one that his face seemed to default to when he was unsure. Cruelty had always been his knee-jerk reaction. The longer Jack stared at him now, the sharper it became.

“Thought you would have been celebrating somewhere downtown,” he said, finally.

Kent shrugged. “The Vegas Strip is less exciting the longer you live here. Big wins, yeah you’ll find us there, but – “

“Oh, so we were a small win? Thanks very fucking much.” He shoved his hands in his pocket. The night was getting colder. Kent groaned.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, I just – “ He cut himself off. Jack watched him breathe.

_Once, twice._

“This place is usually quiet, as least by Vegas standards. It’s also close to the hotel that visiting teams usually use. Kable and the guys wanted to meet up with some of your Russian guys – they played together in the KHL. So we came here tonight.” He leaned his side against the alley wall.

Jack didn’t answer.

“C’mon man, it was also, like, 50/50 if you were going to show tonight. Didn’t know if you’d be holed up in your room sulking, or group-sulking with your team. Took a chance.”

“Took a chance on if I’d be here, or if I wouldn’t be here?”

Kent hummed. “Well, can’t deny that I wanted to talk. Not like you would look at me when we were on the ice.” His voice grew sharper at the end.

Jack could take his own accusation. He couldn’t take Kent’s.

He pushed himself away from the wall.

“Apparently, you didn’t take that for the hint it was,” he bit out. “How many more do I have to drop before you leave me alone?”

He was surprised when Kent laughed. Not as surprised as he should have been. Kent’s reactions to his anger were never what they should have been.

“Jesus, Zimms, your hints are not as enlightening as you hope.” He matched Jack’s posture, standing upright in the middle of the alley, Kent’s eyes only reaching Jack’s chin. His smirk was gone. He was looking at the ground, but Jack could see he was seemed uncertain.

“And I didn’t come here to fight,” he added, belatedly. Jack snorted.

“Yeah? Could have fooled me.”

“Well you’re the one who snapped at m – no, that will just be another fucking argument.” He huffed, mood changing as quickly as ever. “Whatever, man. Sorry about the fucking game.”

He turned to leave. In the low lighting, Jack could see that the back of his neck was red.

“Wait.”

Kent turned. The smirk was back, ever-ready to turn biting.

“Why did you come find me, if it wasn’t to fight?”

His question returned the uncertainty to Kent’s face. He glanced to the side, and down at his shoes, and back to the side. He breathed.

_Once, twice._

“It’s been a few months since you joined the Big Game, man,” he spoke finally. “Wanted to check-in. See how you were doing.”

It was Jack’s turn to laugh.

“I’m doing fucking great, Kent. You know I love to lose.” He kicked at some loose gravel on the ground, needing some outlet in some form.

Kent was quiet, but just for a moment.

“Yeah, but you’re here, not trashing an equipment room somewhere, so I guess that’s something.”

Jack’s kicks slowed. He ground his toe into the dirt instead.

“Oh shit. Jack Laurent Zimmerman, did you trash an equipment room somewhere?” Kent’s voice was complicated, somewhere between gleeful, amused, fond, and worried.

“Just a stick,” Jack muttered.

“Oh please, as if a stupid stick is worth your guilty face. Yeah, I recognize the face, calm the fuck down. I know you, you idiot.”

Jack opened his mouth, closed it again.

Kent continued.

“And it’s not even like that game was a win-or-die situation. And you played well – no listen, don’t give me that look, your team may have lost but _you_ played well. So why the fuck are you freaking out, Zimms?”

Jack opened his mouth, closed it again.

Kent waited this time.

“My therapist. She – we were talking last week during the break about some of my fears.”

He paused – but Kent stayed quiet, standing still in front of him.

“One of the things that scares me, about me, is my own anxiety. And with that anxiety, the things it makes me do. I’m so fucking scared that just once, when I’m freaking out, that I won’t be strong enough to hold it back. That I’ll – “

Kent finished for him. “That you’ll relapse.”

Jack nodded. His shame felt like it was crawling up his through, filling his mouth. Words kept coming out.

“Yeah. We’ve been talking about that a lot. And this week, she asked if I wanted to try something. So she gave me an unmarked bottle – it’s full of sugar pills or some shit, and she asked if I felt comfortable carrying it with me for a week. I have been – it’s in my shaving kit. And it’s been fine. But tonight – tonight was hard. Harder than I thought it would be. And it makes me so fucking mad.”

Kent’s head dropped to his chest.

“Because of me?” His voice was the rawest Jack had ever heard it. He had never seen Kent vulnerable before. Didn’t even know he could be. It unsettled him even more.

“ _Crisse tabarnac_ , Kenny, no, because of me. I still want it. I’m living my dream by playing in the NHL and I still fucking need a pill to make my happiness complete. I’m mad at the reminder than I’m an addict, that that will never change.”

Kent made a noise and made to speak, but Jack couldn’t stop the torrent of words and emotion and of his own fucking breaking heart.

“I mean, is this how the rest of my life going to go? Maybe that’s why she wanted to show me, making me to do test. I did the rehab, I went to college, I lived in a fucking frat haus full of beer and weed and God knows what else, but put a bottle of pills within my reach and that’s it – Zimmerman fails again. Better ready the cameras.” He could feel his breathing get faster, felt the shame turning into panic, as it so often did.

“Did you do it?” Kent’s voice shocked him out of his spiral. He froze. Kent’s grey eyes were firm on his face, focused and piercing. His mouth was relaxed, not quite frowning, not quite smiling.

Just waiting.

It was infuriating.

“Did I fucking do what?” Jack snapped. Kent wasn’t the only one with reflexive anger.

“Did you take a pill?” His voice was calm, calm enough to bring Jack down.

“No.”

And there was the smile. The actual smile. Jack couldn’t remember the last time he had seen it.

“That’s what she wanted to show you.”

Jack stared.

Kent kept smiling, the corners of his mouth soft.

“You’re stronger than your fears, Jack.”

It wasn’t shame in his chest or throat anymore. But it was something just as hot and consuming.

“You struggled. Of fucking course you did, you were carrying a bottle of pills. And Jesus that seems like a risky test to me, but she obviously trusted you and wanted you to see it! Zimms,” he paused, “you’re always going to want it. No point in denying that, it’s a part of you now. But do you think that 17-year old you would have kept struggling not to have a single pill? That fucker would have swallowed every damn one if he could.”

Jack was shocked into laughing. Kent smiled wider in triumph and kept going.

“So you didn’t take a pill. And instead of punishing yourself more by staring at the pill bottle in an empty room at night, you’re here. At a bar. Drinking water?” He motioned at the glass still in Jack’s hand. Jack stared at it, surprised – he had forgotten it was there. “And sulking with your team, not hurting alone. You’re managing without the pills, Zimms, you don’t need them. You may want them, but you don’t need them.”

Jack waited for him to continue, but he seemed to be done. His face felt hot. He cleared his throat.

“When did you get your therapists’ license, eh?”

Kent laughed softly again.

“From life,” he said, smiling. “Everyone has their addictions, Zimms.”

Jack stepped forward.

“Yeah? What’s yours?”

Wrong question. Kent’s smile hardened, the teeth came out – ready to tear.

“Aw Zimms, we’re not talking ‘bout me.”

Closer now, Jack could see a dark bruising forming on Kent’s collarbone. He suddenly felt chagrined. But the heat continued to rise in his chest. He nodded at it.

“That from the 3rd period scuffle?” Kent’s cruel smile froze, and he glanced down in surprise. He gave a one-sided shrug.

“Eh, comes with the job. You could stand to watch your fucking elbows though, Zimmerman.”

Jack took another step closer. Kent looked back up. Seeing Jack’s face, his own grew more wolfish.

“Not like I’ve never worn your bruises before, eh Zimms?”

Instinctive cruelty.

And oh, if Jack didn’t love it.

Of its own accord, his hand raised until his fingers were at Kent’s collar. Kent breathed deeply.

_Once, twice._

Jack thumbed the bruise.

He pushed down.

Kent’s breath caught in his throat. His eyes fluttered shut.

Jack pressed down harder.

Kent _moaned._

They had always been best when words weren’t needed.

Jack closed the distance between them, pressing their hips and chests together, trapping his hand between their bodies. Kent’s warmth, after the constant cold of the night air, sent a new round of shivers down his spine. He felt himself growing hard. He slipped a thigh between Kent’s legs, and felt the exhalation of his gasp against his flushed neck.

They stood like that for a moment, Kent’s eyes still closed.

“What’s your addiction, Kenny?” Jack asked, softly. It still sounded too loud in the silence of the alley.

He watched Kent’s neck as he swallowed thickly. His hand, still fixed to Kent’s neck, felt the throat move.

Kent’s eyes slit open.

“Same as ever, Zimms.” His voice was nothing more than a rasp.

They stayed there – breathing, pressing, feeling, _hurting._ It’s what they did best.

\--

Jack’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

Kent flinched as if he had been struck, stumbling backwards out of Jack’s grip.

Jack’s hand stayed in the air, already missing the contact.

He lowered it slowly, and reached into his pocket.

Missed Call (11:14pm): Bittle

Bittle (11:21pm):

_Honey?_

Bittle (11:32pm):

_I’m getting a bit worried here, honey._

Bittle (11:39pm):

_Jack?_

“Your team missing you?”

He looked up. Kent was back at the door, back in his casual slouch, back with his reflexive smirk. Only the quick rise and fall of his chest gave him away, at a distance.

“No,” Jack said slowly. “It’s – Bittle. A Samwell teammate. He, uh – you met him?”

He finished dumbly. The cold of the night was rushing back in.

So was the shame.

It was stronger than before.

But the accusation was gone.

Kent squinted.

“Bittle – Bitty? The short, blond twink?”

Jack didn’t have it in him to glare fully, but he gave it a shot. Kent laughed – it sounded bitter.

“Oh. _Oh._ I get it – he your army candy right now, Zimms?”

Jack recognized the barb for what it was, but his anger was gone. Shame, and a deep sadness, was replacing it. He shrugged. Kent laughed again.

“Right. Well. Zimms, didn’t know sweet and naïve were your type. Emotionally, at least – physically, you got a type.”

His teeth were sharp. He backed further toward the door, but stopped before opening it.

Jack said nothing.

Kent sighed.

“He know you, Jack?”

The _like I do_ went unsaid. Jack heard it anyway.

_No._

Jack looked at him sadly.

“He thinks he does.”

Kent snorted, reaching finally for the door handle.

“Does anyone know you, Kenny?”

Kent paused. Stood there a minute, with his back facing the alley. Jack could hear the noise of the bar seeping through to open doorway, Tater’s loud laughter, glasses clinking. It felt like a metaphor – him, and Kent, and an open door.

Kent moved.

“See you around, Zimms.”

He walked into the bar.

Jack stood there in the cold, still feeling Kent’s breath against his neck, and throat under his hand. He flexed his fingers –whether to extinguish or ignite that feeling, he couldn’t tell.

His phone buzzed again.

He breathed.

_Once, twice._

_Hi, Jack._

**Author's Note:**

> Hope everyone is safe and healthy during this stressful time!
> 
> Comments are always welcome.


End file.
